


Genuine Emotion and Honesty

by Checkerbox



Series: heartfelt [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, M/M, another romance scene!, set after the relationship has started but before it gets serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerbox/pseuds/Checkerbox
Summary: Dorian wonders what it is they are, if not some quick and dirty fling, and is unable to arrive at a conclusive answer. At least, not one that reassures him.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: heartfelt [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587253
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Genuine Emotion and Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> Currently working on what I hope to be my last long fic, but given it's only half written I figured maybe I could wrap up a WIP or two and get it posted. I promise that this is the last thing I will write that takes place during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts.

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure he liked Trevelyan in red.

If it was just a matter of the gaudiness of the outfits that Josephine had seen fit to commission them, that would be one thing. Of course, he’d heard her go on and on about “presenting a unified front” and “politically advantageous color patterns” and “neutral to all parties at the peace talks” and blah blah blah, it was still hideous and he could be perfectly comfortable and secure in that judgement. It was through the Maker’s own divine intervention that Trevelyan had talked her out of getting them matching masks. There was no need to ruminate on it.

But he had been thinking for the past hour as he passed his eyes over the sea of mingling nobles and servants that he didn’t like Trevelyan in red _specifically._ Bright, eye-catching, inviting. Attracting the attention of every sycophant and whoreing noble in attendance.

He drank, trying not to stare as he worked the room.

Trevelyan had demanded they go see a show, when they first arrived so close to the ball. And had looked so startlingly hurt when Dorian said no that he’d been forced to relent. Naturally, Trevelyan had done the social courtesy of inviting the others along—Dorian had noted with a sniff that all of them were perfectly able to refuse without making that _look_ come over his face—but ultimately the event ended up being just the two of them. In some ways, though not the _expected_ ones, that made it more bearable.

Despite making every attempt to be enthralled by what was going on onstage, Dorian had never been terribly keen on theater. Something about its artificiality rung hollow with him, especially when he could just as easily go out and live the dramas on stage (which made them a bit more painful to witness). So instead he spent the evening watching Trevelyan, and in that at least he was not disappointed. He was so…open, there. One of his legs had started bouncing when the music started, like he intended to run up onto the stage himself. He’d looked as enraptured as a child, gleeful during the fight scenes and face twisting in empathy that never appeared there amidst actual suffering refugees.

Here he learned the man loved performances. He told Dorian that it was so much easier to connect to one than to real people. Easier to know how to play along. So, naturally, rather than shy and bitter and withdrawing he was full of energy when they arrived at those polished gates of the winter palace, a building where absolutely everyone was involved in a performance.

His eyes sparkled with a manic light, teeth looking particularly sharp as they strode through the garden. “This is all so very exciting. –How long until the bloodshed starts, do you think?”

“Not long,” Vivienne had quipped, resting a hand on his arm as though to keep him from sprinting ahead. “I can see Lady Francoix has lost her invitation. One of the guards is liable to lose an eye in the next few minutes.”

Dorian wasn’t prepared for the jealousy he felt at seeing that restraining hand. It was just cordiality—there was some affection between them but it was friendly in nature, he knew that. Besides which, even if it hadn’t been it was above his station. The Inquisitor certainly didn’t _belong_ to him. He knew better than to expect that out of what they were doing with each other.

And yet—

And yet.

Trevelyan discreetly checked on all of them through the party. Of course, in Dorian’s case it might be a bit more discreet if he wasn’t visiting almost every ten minutes.

“I understand that I am the very pinnacle of eye candy, but really—this is quite blatant, my dear Inquisitor,” he leered, swirling the wine in his glass. “People will start to talk. Hungering for better company now that you’re free of the dance floor and that _atrocious_ promenade?”

In anyone else, the remark would have been scripted and direct—a clear signal, routine that’s been played before. But Trevelyan didn’t mask his feelings when he spoke. It appeared that he didn’t have to, going through life seemingly unbothered by such pesky things as emotions, save for the ones that involved grinning like a crocodile at fresh meat.

Evidently, the question made him giddy. “Were you jealous, watching me with Florianne?”

Dorian swallowed down thoughts of the way that Trevelyan had whispered in her ear. “Not at all. Simply curious. Was there anything to be jealous of?”

The smile turned impish. “Do you really think that the Grand Duchess strikes my fancy?”

Hang on. “—Are you answering my questions with more questions?”

He grew brighter. “Is that not how one plays the Game?”

“Maker, are you going to be this insufferable the entire time we’re at the palace?”

“Is not the point of an Orlesian ball to be as insufferable as possible?”

Dorian pinched his side and watched as the man who led a veritable army all his own stifled a giggle.

Dragging his foot along the ground, looking up through the tops of his eyelashes, Trevelyan said more quietly, “Have I told you yet that you look positively ravishing?”

“In this?” Dorian looked suitably horrified for a moment, glancing down at his ensemble. “You must be joking.”

“Well, as I understand it a very key step to ravishing someone involves tearing off their clothing and then judiciously burning it.”

“Oh, does it? Then the ravishing cannot come fast enough.”

The jibe was as well timed, but Dorian said it with just the slightest tingle of nerves.

They had yet to be intimate.

It was an extremely unsettling change of pace, and Dorian had no idea what to do with it. He’d gotten used to fast “courtships”, if they could even be called that. Once interest was established, a fling usually resolved itself in the span of an evening. It was as true as in brothels as it was in high society, though the cat and mouse of the latter usually gave him a bit more breathing room. If nothing happened, it usually meant that nothing was _going_ to happen, and the meagre connection he’d made dissolved under the weight of it.

Only…Trevelyan didn’t provide the expected follow-up to their first kiss. But he also hadn’t ended things, either. There had been clandestine make-outs, spending time together reading, sneaking off between missions while out in the field, etcetera, etcetera. But the man never took more than Dorian offered, and it was so hard to offer more when he was actually enjoying the foreplay for a change.

But it was a double-edged sword. The longer he waited, the further risk of damage when it ended.

It was a dangerous game the two of them were playing. Almost as dangerous as the one they were in now. To mention it felt like—tempting disaster.

Like maybe Dorian wouldn’t even get to _have_ sex before being tossed aside this time.

He was dragged from his thoughts by a musing, “—Perhaps not, actually. It also reminds me of a ballet I saw once about a nutcracker, and that might make things unpleasant.”

Dorian couldn’t help an undignified guffaw escaping his mouth, hissing through his teeth as he struggled to keep his composure.

Trevelyan looked positively delighted, attempting to sneer but eyes too bright to pull it off. “Look at you, such a _gutter mind_. I am talking about _theatre_.”

This time he managed to keep his mirth contained to a haughty chuckle, clenching his fingers around the delicate stem of his glass and taking a sip. “One of these days I will grow tired of these insults.”

“Ah, but that’s not today.” The bell chimed. Once, twice--He gave a start, glancing back in the direction of the ballroom. “—Damn. That’s my cue.”

“Best wait a moment. More fashionable when you’re a touch late.”

“You just want to keep my company for a minute longer.”

“Well I—” Dorian huffed away a stammer, amused stupefaction coloring his tone. “Perhaps I do.”

But his attention paled in comparison to the end of the world, and though he was still smirking, Trevelyan left anyway.

And he did not come back. Not even after the clock struck midnight, and the Empress lay on the floor of her stage, blood cascading like a waterfall down to pool on the dance floor.

After everything had happened—after the _show_ had come to a close with the nobles suitably entertained, Dorian found Trevelyan outside on the balcony hanging slightly over the edge of the guard rail.

“It’s a very long fall to the garden,” he said. “Do you think I’d survive?”

Dorian sidled up beside him. “Would you like me to push you and find out?”

Trevelyan started to snort, and then slapped a hand over his mouth, laughing for an entire half-minute longer than the joke deserved and growing slightly more hysterical as he did so.

When he was finished and staring off into the distance again, Dorian took in the slouch of his posture and leaned on the railing so that they were roughly eye level. “You sound like you’ve been drinking. Impressive, considering you’ve been holding the same glass all night.”

Without hesitation, Trevelyan held out his wine and dumped it down to the gardens below. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he dropped the glass after it. “It’s been a very long night.” He paused, then amended, a deranged smirk edging on his smile. “No, I lie. It’s been a very quick night. Very quick, difficult, exhausting night.”

Well, that was certainly the understatement of the age. Dorian would drink to that.

“You let Celene die,” he observed, finishing off his own wine.

“Do you disapprove?”

He set the glass aside. “Far be it from me to invest myself in who happens to be running Orlais at any given time. Though I do think bringing Gaspard to heel was a nice touch.”

An almost disconnected quality took over Trevelyan’s face at that, looking out over the foliage in the royal gardens. “I don’t like war much. It’s very messy and impersonal. And the last thing we need is some expansionist ponce fucking up his neighbors for sport. At least with Briala we know she’ll be putting most of the focus on her own people.”

“And here I was under the impression that all you could think about was whose throat you got to cut.” Dorian tapped Trevelyan lightly on the nose and he straightened up very suddenly, blinking. “You do care about getting it right.”

“Well I—” And there it was for the first time tonight, that adorable flush that stood out so well on the man’s pale face. Was it the praise? Perhaps he should praise him more often. “I j-just—I want to win, don’t I?”

If Dorian could have frozen that moment, made a portrait of it so that he could witness that rare bit of earnestness, he would do so in a heartbeat. As it were, however, it was quickly gone. The edged smile returned, brows quirking.

Trevelyan sighed, appearing to deflate into sardonics once more. “I am confident in my decision but I am not confident that she won’t be killed by falling masonry tomorrow because that’s just how my luck goes.”

And Dorian found himself laughing again, because this man was frankly ridiculous. “Look at yourself! Moping about while there’s still music playing. No hero gets a guarantee that the world _stays_ saved.”

“I am not moping. I am being—realistic.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but dwelling on reality is the most pure form of moping there is.”

A peaceful silence followed, a light breeze blowing over the both of them and carrying the scent of flowers from below. It was a beautiful night. Even the stars were out—in a city so lit up like Halamshiral, Dorian knew that to be a rarity.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked suddenly, straightening up. This time Trevelyan’s open book was closed. This time, he said nothing, expressed nothing. Just stared in his way, as though trying to determine something in the offer. And it quickly grew nerve-wracking, quickly showcased how everything he’d thought about his own feelings towards him were woefully naïve. That he was in far, far deeper than he’d have ever liked to admit. “—It’s my pride, you see. You owe me one for neglecting me earlier.”

Then, quietly, Trevelyan reached for his hand.

The resultant relief was rapturous, and Dorian held that hand tightly as he smirked. Squeezed it briefly in his grip, and was surprised to feel it squeezed in return.

A hand on his hip, bodies close enough to almost be touching—Dorian knew this part much better, though it had never been with someone who made him feel so volatile as Trevelyan did. He found himself having to focus on the steps, on playing it smooth, and so he almost missed the way Trevelyan’s gaze glimmered as they rotated slowly around the balcony.

“In—in this light,” he began, voice soft, “Your eyes, they—glow.”

Dorian chuckled, swaying them both to the dim music still playing inside. “I know you’re just being sappy, but sometimes they do that.”

Trevelyan’s lips parted in wonder. “They do?”

“Oh yes. _Magic_ , and all.” Dorian slipped his hand around his waist and pulled him closer, so that they were flush against each other. He was warm in the cool night air, soothing the jittering that had begun in his limbs.

“I think you’re having me on.”

“Perhaps I am.” He allowed himself a kiss. Just a small one, a little peck on Trevelyan’s lips. “Perhaps you’ll see.”

“The kind of secrets--" His voice started sweet and breathless, but then changed as his mind played catch-up with itself. It felt like unlocking something that wasn't accustomed to being open. "--The kind of secrets they keep in Orlais are so tedious, Dorian.” Even annoyed he was gorgeous, brows pulling in as he glared at the party that seemed so distant now. “I thought I’d like the mysteries—Josephine and Leliana certainly played it up as exciting—but in the end it’s the same thing dressed up in a million different ways. Even the murders felt scripted.”

"You would like more unscripted murder, would you?”

“I would like questions that don’t have pre-made answers. And expressions that are not taken out of some unspoken rule book.” Something dark entered his gaze, and he grinned toothily. “I would love to see them viscerally terrified of something. Not just ‘shocked’. I want something that makes them throw up, not cover their mouths with dainty handkerchiefs. --Or else admit that none of it really matters. At least the other night everything was on a stage.”

“I’m afraid you would have to do something very drastic to get genuine emotion and honesty out of the great Game,” Dorian chuckled. “I could try a terror spell, if you like, but I imagine that would disrupt the peace talks we just spent the whole night settling.”

Trevelyan’s eyes crinkled warmly. He moved a hand up to the back of Dorian’s neck and pulled him in for a longer kiss, humming appreciatively.

“Thank you for coming out to find me,” he said when they broke, when Dorian’s heart was beating far faster than it had any right to and they both looked a little kiss-bruised. “You’re such a pleasure to talk to.”

“Of course,” Dorian murmured, steadying himself. “I have often been complimented on my technique when…’talking’.”

Trevelyan pressed his face into Dorian’s shoulder as he laughed. Then he let it rest there.

Dorian could have almost killed himself.

He was shaking, insides full of tremors as he tried to maintain his calm. He couldn’t lie to himself when it was so obvious. Trevelyan wanted to terrify someone—he’d succeeded. Usually everything was cut off before the heady, sweet stage began. All his delays had been to protect himself, but he’d failed to account for this. Now he didn’t have the same level of protection. Now, Trevelyan could reach in and rip out a fleshy chunk of his heart if he wanted to.

And he would most certainly want to.


End file.
